Some sketches from today! I got myself a fresh little book and new pencils to feel all nice about. Felt good to do some pencil and paper!
Hey there late nighters~
I started this as kind of my THANKS FOR FOLLOWING ME because I said I would do a nice Sherlock pic. Well, it came out all angst. Sorry! (sort of!)
I’m completely floored that anybody wants to come share in my little collection of things, let alone look at my art, let alone just over one hundred of you.
So Thank you, thank you, thank you.
You have all of my love, always.
Sherlock waits an hour after John goes to bed, to be sure he’s gone to sleep. The motions are practiced, if out of date. The sensation almost familiar. He’s prepared to take mental notes on the effects, the duration. He settles back down onto the couch.
It begins an hour later. Just as skittering images across the periphery of his vision. Black against black. He ignores it at first, simply filling in hallucinations in his mental ledger.
An hour later they’re watching him. They’re perched on the table. They’re whispering. The noise is like dry leaves. They clack claws and chitter and rustle rustle rustle. He fills in auditory hallucinations and closes his eyes.
Half an hour later he’s in his room tugging the sheets off his bed. It’s dark, lit only by the ambient urban light filtering through the apartment. Every corner is chittering, whispering. Down the hall, he can hear a voice he’d rather not in this state. The sheets. The sheets are to bag the little rustling creatures. They’re dark and black and the white should wrap them all up and keep them contained.
Twenty minutes later Sherlock is in the kitchen, and has flipped the table, spilling the contents across the floor. His back is pressed against it. Some small part of his brain not over taken by the animal remembers to fill in Fear, Paranoia, Anxiety.
He gets the gun when the voice gets closer. It isn’t even all around him, it’s in his head. It’s trailing blood across the inside of his eyelids, the pads of his fingertips. All the while chittering chittering chittering. This is worse than the busyness of his own mind, the constant seeing, the constant knowing. Everything is over-run with falseness, lies on lies on lies. The creatures brush up against him now, and he can feel the velvety darkness whisper against him. He starts shooting.
They scatter at the sound, but begin to draw close. Occasionally their rustling, cackling, chittering mouths begin to make sense. Speak. They have his voice. They repeat speeches heard ages ago. They whisper new threats. His heart pounds and he thinks of John, just upstairs, asleep. Vulnerable.
Sherlock goes absolutely still. If they don’t see his glance dart towards the door they won’t know.
“Sherlock, thank god.”
John’s voice doesn’t filter properly. It’s distorted and twisted and it rises in the wrong places. Sherlock turns his head, trying to focus on what’s in the kitchen but it’s over come with rustling, swarming…
Sherlock has had enough. Of this. All of this. The noise. He’s been here before, had hallucinations, but this was pulling emotional strings that were rusty and stiff and he had had enough.
The swarming darkness darts behind the table following the burst.
“It’s me, it’s John! Put the gun down!”
Confusion rattles into Sherlock. This wasn’t right. John was meant to be upstairs, away from all this, safe. Safe. No, it wasn’t John. Couldn’t be. He tightens his grip on the gun.
The swarm mutters something else and the noise drives it’s way right into Sherlock. He lets out another round but this time the noise and light shifts Sherlock back into place, momentarily. Briefly, he sees John, crouched behind the kitchen table. He’s peering around, avoiding Sherlock, searching. His sig is clutched close, defensive but unwilling.
Sherlock’s phone picks this moment to chime. Jarringly.
Sherlock crowds John through the door to his room, angling him towards the bed. He catches John’s lips, kissing him hungrily. Relishing in the taste of his mouth, his allowed closeness. The ability to touch him. Whenever, wherever.
He slides his hands under the hem of his shirt, seeking skin. The sensation is electric, both of them supercharged and overheated. John draws in a sharp breath, Sherlock tips his head towards his neck. He tastes, explores. John helpfully lets his head fall back, drawing the muscles in his neck out into elegant, delectable lines. Sherlock explores them with his tongue, slowly, his breath hot and hungry. John moans, softly, as he reaches the tender areas beneath his jaw. His pulse heavy against his skin, palpable against Sherlock’s lips. He presses against this area with heavy, open mouthed kisses. John’s breath picks up encouragingly, and Sherlock begins to suck, gently at first, his fingers tightening against John’s lower back. His teeth graze the skin and John gasps. Sherlock finds himself so engrossed in exploring this singular erogenous zone that when he draws away, the area is darkened, bruised. The effect is wonderful, it thrills him. Marking John.
John’s eyes are closed, leaning heavily against Sherlock, breathing heavy. Sherlock catches his lips again, and John’s hands find their way into his hair, tugging insistently. I need you I need you I need you. Sherlock pulls away, pulling John’s shirt and jumper off in one movement. Casting them aside. He’s backed John right up to his bed, mattress bumping up against the back of his legs. He leans towards John, just so, and he sits, heavily. John tangles his fingers in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls, demanding, and Sherlock has no choice but to obligingly lean forward and meet his mouth. John’s lips are dark, flushed and hot. Sherlock loves it.
John tries to pull him down onto the bed, but Sherlock places his hands on John’s shoulders and pushes. John lies there, on his back, legs over the edge of the bed, gazing up at Sherlock. A long moment passes where Sherlock takes the time to look. Earlier, on the floor, had been so rushed that he was just tasting, analyzing each separate moment. But now, there was Time. He tilts his head, just a little, almost unconsciously, and John can’t help but feel his gaze.
John is pinker than usual, his blood zinging. His scar is a wonderful counterpoint to the newer wounds, the still angry red S opposite. Sherlock’s eyes roam down John’s torso, consuming. Collecting. The brush of hair peeking out above his waistband, trailing from his navel. Sherlock can’t help it when his tongue just barely peeks out between his lips. He’s feeling a mad urge to taste every inch of John, starting there. To feel the roughness of the coarse hairs against his tongue. The saltiness of his skin. To press himself against the hardness already wonderfully present in John’s pants, to breathe him.
John props himself up on his elbows, eyebrows raised questioningly, though he knows the look in Sherlock’s eyes well. Sherlock spends time collecting the way John’s stomach muscles tense in this position before meeting John’s eyes. Sherlock flushes, slightly. In a swift movement he’s on his knees, between John’s. The corners of his lips twitch in a way that John can only describe as mischievous, which is more than slightly worrisome. Before he can speculate about all the horrible things that could be done, Sherlock is running his hands up the insides of John’s thighs and his elbows go out from under him.
Sherlock feels a rush of pleasure at John’s immediate reaction. Pleased by his effect. He works John’s belt, button, zip, intent on breaching the barrier between himself and this last wonderful bit of John.
He tugs, and John obligingly lifts himself to let Sherlock shuck both his jeans and underwear. He’s incredibly hard, a bit of pre-cum already making it’s way down the shaft of his cock. Sherlock leans forward, and pulls John towards himself. He begins by placing slow, open, kisses up the inside of John’s thigh, drawing gasps and jerks from John. He trails his fingers up the opposite leg, teasing. John grinds out a frustrated growl.
Sherlock chuckles against his skin, the rush of air drawing an intake of breath. Slowly, he runs his tongue from the base of John’s cock up to the head, pausing to explore the topography of his skin. John’s answering moan is long, guttural, and amazing. Slowly, Sherlock swirls his tongue around the glans, his eyes flickering up to watch John’s expression. He’s thrown an arm over his eyes, but he’s biting his lip. Hard. Wonderful. Sherlock takes his cock into his mouth, just the tip, as if he’s sampling the taste, and John moans outright. Encouraging. Sherlock takes a little more, relishing John’s reaction. He repeats this, coming up each time, but taking more and more of John on the way down, his rhythm slow, calculated. John’s hand grasps Sherlock’s forearm desperately, his breathing quick and shallow.
“…Christ. That mouth… of yours. Illegal.” He gasps out.
Sherlock increases his speed, savouring John. He hadn’t realized he would enjoy this so much. John begins to moan in earnest now, volume climbing. Fantastic. Sherlock is absolutely enjoying being able to take John apart like this. With just his mouth. It’s arresting, the shapes John’s mouth makes as he gasps for air. When he bites down on his lower lip to stifle the noise. How bruised they look, flushed with blood. Sherlock is desperately, almost painfully, hard; but he wants to draw out this moment as long as possible.
John is more than sufficiently taken to pieces, trying desperately to hold on. Sherlock can tell, of course. He pulls back to suck insistently, before taking John’s cock back fully into his mouth. He repeats this until John is moan desperately, teetering at the edge. Sherlock desperately wants to make him come now, and he drags his fingernails down John’s sides. John bucks, breath catching. He barely gets a knuckle between his teeth before he’s coming. He tries desperately to smother the sound, but Sherlock is tugging at his wrist, intent on hearing every second. John drops his hand, and Sherlock lets the sound of John moaning into his orgasm wash over him as he takes the salty, earthy, taste of his semen. Consumes this, too. All of John. Every bit of him.
John is slick with sweat that Sherlock has the urge to taste. He struggles with whether this is an alright thing or not for a few seconds before giving in. He pushes himself up from his knees, submitting to the urge to run his tongue through the coarse hair above John’s cock, to follow it to his navel. John groans, and bucks, trying to derail Sherlock. Still too sensitive. He ignores him. Sweat lingers here and Sherlock savours it, tangy and sharp. He kisses away glistening beads all the way up John’s stomach, chest, collarbone, neck. John is murmuring unintelligibly by this time and Sherlock smiles against his skin.
“Well, that’s one.”
Everything in the world shrinks down to John. Sherlock spends time exploring as the bands of fear unlatch from his chest. He dips his tongue between John’s lips, exploring their topography. He samples the smooth skin behind them, breathes in his exhalations. John’s hands are…
When his phone finally buzzes with response, Sherlock can feel a tightness lift out of his chest. It makes him uncomfortable. The phone is in his hand and he thumbing open the text message before he has too much time to analyze the sensation.
<Join us for a cuppa. No Rush….